


Sketches of the Sun

by fishpoets



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Tattoo Parlor, Alternate Universe - Tattoos, Human Genji Shimada, M/M, shimada bros aren't yakuza
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-05
Updated: 2018-07-13
Packaged: 2018-09-03 03:17:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8694274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fishpoets/pseuds/fishpoets
Summary: Jesse's life is better than he ever imagined he'd get. He owns his own tattoo studio, gets to be creative, and has people in his life who care for him.Doesn't stop him feeling like he's stuck in a rut. There's something vital he's missing, and the older he gets the louder certain skeletons like to rattle at his closet door.Perhaps an interesting new client will shake things up - but perhaps that client has some issues of his own.





	1. Chapter 1

 

Jesse drops his cheery smile as soon as the door clangs shut behind his customer.

 

With a heavy sigh he pushes away from the counter, traipses back to his workspace at the back of the shop. It's been one of _those_ days, where the buzz of the gun in his hand feels more like a chore than the cherished thing it really is, never managing to cut through the malaise.

 

Alone in the empty shop, he whistles to himself, tuneless and half-hearted as he sets about the routine of cleaning and sterilising. The studio's doing well enough for itself these days, but Jesse has enough experience with the desperate scramble of uncertain income to feel leery of turning down business. It's just that lately none of the work he gets asked to do feels satisfying. What he wouldn't give for a large, expensive commission – something interesting, a challenge that'll let him stretch his creative wings. It's been a while. Maybe he'll get lucky at his next convention.

 

Needles disposed and equipment in the autoclave, he's just finishing wiping down the surfaces when the bell rings from the front of the shop. He stretches, grunts at the crack of released tension in his spine, tosses the wipe and his gloves into the trash and washes his hands before he goes to investigate.

 

Eight thirty in the evening is a full half hour before closing time, but Jesse has no more scheduled clients today and he'd been looking forward to locking up early. A drop-in this late is the last thing he wants right now.

 

What he's greeted with surprises him. It's not a hipster or a valley girl or a surfer dragging themselves in from the beach, nor is it a tourist attracted by the cowboy kitsch of the window display. It's a man dressed in a dark grey suit that fits like it was made for him – which it might well have been. Looks expensive enough, no doubt.

 

Jesse blinks. He gets businessmen in on occasion, but not ones like this. This guy looks like he stepped right off the cover of GQ magazine, what with his suit and his shined shoes, his smooth black hair arranged in a tidy bun high on the back of his head. He stands with his arms crossed, sharp profile scowling at the art on the wall like it's offended his mama.

 

"Er, howdy there," Jesse says, stepping up behind the front counter.

 

The man turns, and – damn, forget GQ, this guy's come straight from the catwalk. He drops the scowl to raise a thick, trimmed brow – probably because Jesse's gawping at him like he just got smacked upside the head with a slipper.

 

He knows it's rude to stare, but good golly geez, this guy is _gorgeous_.

 

Shorter than Jesse but broad in the shoulder, his muscular build is obvious even under his suit. But it's his face that's the real wonder: a strong jaw and a proud nose; neat-cropped beard framing a displeased mouth; chiseled, cut-marble cheekbones topped off with an intense dark stare. Jesse swallows. Those eyes look like they could cut him to ribbons with a blink.

 

Jesse knows he's handsome enough, but this guy is on a whole other level. All Jesse's got in his favor is his roguish appeal. He drops his elbows to the counter and leans over, smiling his most winsome smile.

 

"How can I help you?" he purrs, with as much good ol' McCree charm as he can muster after a long day's work.

 

The man's dark eyes flick over him, sizing him up. "I am here to meet someone," he declares. It's a voice made for declarations, deep and softly accented. Jesse licks his lip and reaches for the computer to poke it awake.

 

"You got an appointment, hon?"

 

"Ah – no," the man drops his arms and smooths down the front of his suit jacket. "I meant, I'm waiting for someone to come here.”

 

"Right, I get ya." Not a customer then. Shame – he's obviously got no shortage of cash to spend, and Jesse isn't one to complain about spending time with attractive people. "What time were you meetin'? We close at nine."

 

The man slides an expensive-looking phone from the innards of his expensive-looking jacket and frowns at it. "We agreed on 8.30," he says, lips twisted with frustration. Inwardly, Jesse grins – Mister Punctual here evidently doesn't appreciate his companion being nearly ten minutes late – but instead of getting angry the man sighs and slips the phone back into his pocket. He points at the art he was scowling at earlier. "You're an artist here, I assume. Is this yours?"

 

The frames on the wall above the waiting area are full of illustrations of old-school tattoo motifs, swallows and stars and the like, drawn with a delicate, gothic twist. A larger piece in the center showcases a spider on a web that hangs like a lacy chandelier.

 

"Nah, that there's Amélie Lacroix's work." Not quite to Jesse's taste, but she's got all those instagram followers for a reason. She's damn good at what she does and she doesn't mess around. It's why he hired her.

 

Jesse nods at the large frame by the door, the one conveniently placed right in front of the counter. "This one here's mine, if you're interested."

 

The gorgeous stranger raises his eyebrow again. "The painting?"

 

"Yup." He seems surprised. Jesse grins. "What can I say, I'm a man of many talents."

 

The man _hm_ s dismissively but walks over anyway to examine it more closely. His expensive shoes make almost no noise on the squeaky laminate floor.

 

He eyes the oils like a critic in a gallery, leaning in to peer at the brushstrokes, then back to take in the whole: the sunrise, the sky, the sweep of the mountains. A frisson of nerves tingles under Jesse's skin. He's used to putting his work up for judgement – hell, it's his job – but it's been years since one person's scrutiny made him feel so exposed. He's just about psyched himself up to ask the stranger's opinion when the old bell clangs above the door again as it swings open.

 

Vibrant, highlighter green. No way Jesse could mistake hair that shade. He opens his mouth, but the stranger beats him to it.

 

"Genji. You're late."

 

Genji laughs, shutting the door behind him. "Sorry, sorry! I was stuck in traffic."

 

The man scowls, even harder than he did at Amélie's artwork. "I thought you were going to walk here."

 

"Eh." Genji shrugs, jostling the sports bag strapped across his back. "Mind your blood pressure, _nii-chan_. Have you introduced yourself? It's easy, see: Hey, Jesse!" With this he grins at Jesse and gives him a jaunty wave.

 

"Always good to see you Genji," Jesse chuckles. "But naw, we ain't had the pleasure of an introduction yet. I take it y'all know each other?"

 

Genji laughs. “You don't see the resemblance?” The stranger wrinkles his nose as Genji's hand claps down on his shoulder. "This is my brother, Hanzo," Genji chirps. "Hanzo, my friend I was telling you about, Jesse McCree."

 

Genji's brother, huh? That's a surprise. From the way Genji's talked about him sometimes, Jesse had imagined the elusive Shimada sibling to be a bland, pedantic stick-in-the-mud type, not this brooding wet dream wrapped in fine fabric.

 

Of course, Jesse's old and wise enough by now to know good looks alone don't make a person interesting, but no one has eyes that formidable without having some kind of fire in them.

 

He sticks out his hand. "Good to meetcha, Hanzo."

 

Hanzo gives his hand a dubious once-over before he takes it. His own is broad and warm, his grip firm. He shakes once and inclines his head.

 

"A pleasure." He makes it sound like anything but.

 

Genji sighs and rolls his eyes dramatically. "Always so formal. This is _fun_ , not work, Hanzo."

 

Hanzo drops Jesse's hand as if it's burned him. The scowl rolls back across his face like a storm cloud. "It's called being polite," he huffs. "Don't start, Genji."

 

Genji plants his hand on his hip and cocks his head. The two brothers look at each other. Jesse may not have siblings himself, so far as he knows, but he's been party to enough 'discussions' between Fareeha and her mother to know the signs of an imminent familial stand-off when he sees 'em. He clears his throat.

 

"Not that y'all ain't welcome here, but it's gettin' late. Is there anything I can do for you gentlemen?"

 

It's enough to distract Genji, at least. He perks up visibly and bounds up to the counter, slipping his hands around Hanzo's sizable upper arm. "Congratulate me, Jesse. I have finally persuaded my brother to get a tattoo with me!"

 

"That so?" It's impossible not to smile when Genji looks so genuinely happy about the prospect, but a quick glance to his side tells Jesse that Genji's sentiments may not be shared. Hanzo is no longer scowling but his brows are still drawn tight, dark gaze resting pensive on the smooth surface of the counter.

 

Newbie nerves, maybe.

 

"I showed him the leg piece you did for me and he liked it, so here we are," Genji continues. "Do you have your binders handy?"

 

"Sure do." Jesse fishes them out from the shelf under the counter and sets them out; one of his sketches and designs, the other with photos of his finished pieces. Genji grabs the designs folder and starts flicking quickly through it.

 

"You fellas know what you're aiming for?" Jesse asks.

 

Surprisingly, Hanzo is the one who answers. "A sparrow and a wolf," he replies, not looking up from the binder.

 

Genji finds what he's been looking for and offers the page to Hanzo. Jesse peers at it upside-down. It's a page of geometric animal designs, their bodies made up of interlocking shapes. Some formed from blocks of color, others just with lines, bold and black.

 

Genji watches his brother and Jesse watches them both, breath caught in his throat as Hanzo considers.

 

He's more relieved than he'd admit when Hanzo nods.

 

"Acceptable," he says quietly. Judging from the size of Genji's smile, it's a bigger compliment than it sounds.

 

"All righty then," Jesse grins. He grabs a notepad and pen from the shelf. "A sparrow and a wolf, you said?"

 

"A sparrow for Hanzo and a wolf for me," Genji confirms, tapping the inside of his forearm. “Here for both of us.”

 

Jesse notes it down. "Got it. So-" he explains, mainly for Hanzo's benefit, "I can get some sketches drawn up, send 'em to you over the weekend, and if one of 'em grabs your fancy I'll fix it up for you. Then we can talk about arrangin' your session. Sound good?"

 

The two brothers look at each other. Genji's smile grows even wider, and – wonder of wonders – the corners of Hanzo's lips lift too.

 

 

* * *

 

 

4 a.m. greets him like an old friend – one Jesse wishes he'd lost contact with years ago. There's nothing for it now, so he rolls from his sweat-damp sheets and shuffles down the dark hallway, knuckling his eyes to rub the memories away.

 

The kitchen tiles slap cold against his bare feet. It's a routine: three steps forward, then right – knocks his hip against the corner cabinet _again_ , god damn it – then some groping for the handle of the fridge. When he opens the door the light makes him wince. He blinks a few times and rests his aching head against the rim of the door where it's blessedly cool.

 

The fridge is emptier than he thought. A six-pack of cheap beer on the top shelf behind a tupperware of leftover chili; a half-pint of milk and one lonely egg in the door; various ancient part-used condiments, and a packet of bacon that's almost finished. Something green wilts unhappily in the vegetable drawer. It's a dismal display. Almost embarrassing.

 

Jesse knocks his head against the door and sighs. The hum of the electrics is loud in the silence of his empty apartment. He thinks of his cell on the nightstand: he could phone Gabriel. God knows the man has sworn at him enough times for Jesse to know he means it when he says 'call any time you need'.

 

But it's 4 in the morning. Gabe and Jack have been through enough, far more than Jesse has. They deserve to live out their retirement in peace.

 

Still, Jesse feels guilty enough to reach for the milk, and not the beer.

 

He falls asleep again in front of the tv.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i can't say when i'll get chapter 2 out, i've got other things i'm working on that i want to finish before i work more on this. i was going to hold off on posting til i had more written but eh, i decided to post now to pressure myself to work on it so doesn't end up as yet another abandoned wip on my hard drive...
> 
> but hey thanks for reading this completely self-indulgent thing haha!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's been 84 years but i'm finally working on this again :O

 

“Hey now, no sex in the shop, ladies, you know the rules.”

 

Lena laughs merrily as the two women break apart from each other's lips. Amélie just rolls her eyes.

 

“ _Va te faire foutre._ ”

 

“Yeah, yeah, right back atcha.” Jesse puts the coffees down and leans back against the counter. Lena hops up from the sofa and bounds over to start poking at the cardboard cups. “Anythin' interesting happen this morning?”

 

Amélie smooths back her hair. “Non. You had a visitor,” she says with an air of boredom.

 

“Yeah? Who was it?”

 

She pulls a compact from the pocket of her velvet jacket and examines her reflection before she replies. “Shimada.”

 

“Shimada?” Jesse furrows his brow, puzzled. It's not like Genji to go by his family name, but why would Hanzo drop by unannounced? “Which one?”

 

“That is the only name he gave.” Amélie purses her lips at herself and, apparently satisfied, clips the mirror shut. She stands gracefully and walks over, taking the latte that Lena passes her. “He was a shorter man, with long black hair. Handsome enough, I suppose. He actually had something approaching _style;_ his suit was Armani.” She sniffs at her coffee. “Last season, though.”

 

“Right, that'd be Hanzo.” Jesse drums his fingers on the counter. Why would... “Did he-”

 

“I told him you would not be in until noon,” Amélie interrupts. She shrugs. “He declined to leave a message. Obviously whatever he wanted can't have been very important.”

 

Frowning, Jesse pulls his phone from his pocket and checks – nope, no new notifications. Nothing from Hanzo saying he wants to cancel tonight's appointment. Nothing from Genji, either.

 

Lena squints at him over the lid of her cup.

 

“I know that face,” she says.

 

“What?”

 

“That face you're wearing!” She slots her unfinished drink back in the holder and pokes him in the arm. “Do _not_ flirt with this man, Jesse McCree! I told him he'd look good with a bridge piercing and he actually seemed interested, so don't you dare scare him off!”

 

“Wh-- that happened _one time_.”

 

Lena crosses her arms. “Once is enough, don't you think?” She puffs her bangs out of her face.

 

“More than enough,” Amélie adds snidely. “You embarrassed yourself.”

 

Jesse points at her. “No one asked you.” He turns the finger on Lena. “And what makes you so sure I even like this guy, huh?”

 

“Oh, come on!” she laughs. “Pretty eyes, scowly _and_ beefy? He's totally your type.” She scrunches her face up and flexes her arms, laughs again.

 

“Didn't think you'd notice any o' that.”

 

“Don't be a ninny. I'm gay, not blind.” She hops up and reaches over the counter, her feet dangling off the floor, and grabs her bomber jacket from the shelf on the other side. She pulls it on and picks up her coffee, and the two women turn as one for the door. “Anyway, we'll catch you later, love.”

 

“You ladies headin' out for lunch?”

 

“Yep.” Lena spins on her heel, walking backwards with Amélie keeping a subtle eye on her path. “We're gonna Skype with Emily so we might be a while. Want us to pick you up anything, Jess?”

 

“Naw, I'm good, thanks. I've already eaten.”

 

“Alright.” Lena fingerguns at him. “But no picking off the customer menu while we're gone!”

 

“Don't sass me!” Jesse calls after them. “Y'all're forgettin' who's boss of this joint!”

 

The fingerguns snap into a salute. “Aye aye, Sheriff!”

 

“And don't mix your genres!”

 

Lena cackles with laughter. Amélie rolls her eyes again and holds the door open for her, and then they're gone, stepping out into the sunshine.

 

Jesse chuckles, shaking his head as he gets ready to start his workday. He doesn't know how they manage: Amélie with her off-again, on-again husband, Emily-who-he's-heard-a-lot-about-but-never-met doing the long-distance thing from back in England, and Lena somewhere in the middle, all in one open, polyamorous bundle. Meanwhile here he is, not having scored a date in years. Not one he cared about, anyhow. No one he wanted to let in.

 

Despite the jokes and teasing, he doesn't have a habit of fishing for company from their pool of clients. He's a professional, after all. Got his standards to maintain. A bit of harmless flirting is as far as he takes things, and usually he only does it to slyly butter folks up in the hopes they'll leave a bigger tip.

 

Hanzo sure was pretty though, Lena wasn't wrong about that. Pity they hadn't met somewhere else – though if they had, a man like him probably wouldn't've looked at Jesse twice.

 

He wonders what Hanzo wanted this morning.

 

No, there's no point dwelling on it, he scolds himself, as he pushes through the saloon-style doors that lead to the studio space. Amélie's right; if it was important, Hanzo should've left a message, or simply sent Jesse a text. It's not Jesse's job to go chasing people up to make sure they're happy before they've even sat down in his chair.

 

He'll just have to wait 'til tonight.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 _Tap tap_ goes the foot, impatient. _Tap tap tap._

 

Hanzo slides his phone from his pants pocket and sighs at it, shifts his weight to the other leg, taps that foot as well.

 

Jesse hides his grin as he finishes sorting through the brothers' paperwork. “Genji's late again, huh?”

 

“You would think he'd be more cognizant of his timekeeping,” Hanzo grumbles, “considering this was his idea in the first place.”

 

Jesse pats the papers into a neat pile and sets them down on the counter. “You know,” he starts tentatively, “you don't gotta go through with this if you don't want. If Genji's pushin' you into it.”

 

“What?” Hanzo looks up at him, surprised. “No, no – Genji does like to get his own way but he would not force me. This _is_ something I want. I did not mean to imply otherwise.” He tilts his head at Jesse curiously – the same way Genji does, Jesse recognizes, though on Genji it's always seemed cheeky. This feels dinstinctly like he's being sized up. “It seems poor business sense to try and discourage customers before they've paid.”

 

“Maybe,” Jesse shrugs, “but I've always thought it best for everyone involved if folks go out the door havin' had a good experience. Don't want anyone gettin' work they ain't happy with.” He rounds the counter, ignoring the tingle of Hanzo's dark eyes watching him as he steps closer. “Amélie told me you dropped by this morning, so I was wonderin' if maybe you weren't so keen on the idea. If you were havin' second thoughts.”

 

“Ah.” Hanzo looks back down at his phone, swipes at it a few times then puts it away. “No, nothing like that. I was in the area and wanted to see the finished designs in person, before this evening. But you were not around, so.” He shifts his shoulders in a half-shrug.

 

“Right.” Part of Jesse wonders if he's lying, but if he is it's not his problem. Can't force a man to be honest. “Well, in any case, we don't gotta wait around for Genji. Can I take your jacket, get you more comfortable?”

 

Jesse's mouth goes dry as Hanzo slides his suit jacket off, giving him an eyeful of those thick muscles shifting under his crisp cream shirt. It's been a couple weeks since he saw Hanzo in person; all their correspondence since has been through email and text, and Jesse'd been half-wondering if his brain was exaggerating Hanzo's attractiveness, those few times he let his mind wander when he was lying in bed trying to sleep, idly chasing possibilities. Turns out his memory doesn't hold a candle to the real thing.

 

He keeps his cool as Hanzo passes him the jacket with a quiet thanks, then touches him lightly on the arm, keeping him in place. Jesse watches, throat tight, as Hanzo loosens the knot of his tie and slithers it out from under his shirt collar. He rolls it up neat and puts it in the inside pocket of his jacket.

 

He has to step into Jesse's space to do so. Jesse gets a barest hint of smooth, musky cologne, and something fresh – mint? Whatever it is, it makes him glad he's never been much of a blusher.

 

The bell clangs as he's trying to find space in the closet where the suit won't get crumpled between Lena's multitude of faux-leather jackets. There's a murmur of Japanese and a moment later, Genji appears at his shoulder.

 

“Yo.” He dumps his sportsbag on the floor under the coats and claps Jesse on the shoulder. “We ready to do this, cowboy?”

 

Jesse nudges him out of the way, finally hangs up Hanzo's jacket and shuts the closet door. “You know the drill,” he says. “Just need you to sign the forms, Genji, and we can get started.”

 

Genji, as always, actually reads the disclaimer form in full before he signs at the bottom. Jesse'd thought it at-odds with the rest of his personality until Hanzo did the same, reading the fine-print with such intent scrutiny it was almost funny. A product of their upbringing, maybe? Genji's never talked about it much, always skillfully side-stepping any mention of his parents or his childhood, enough for Jesse to pick up that it probably wasn't very happy.

 

None of his business, anyhow. “So who's goin' first?”

 

The brothers engage in a silent conversation. Genji tips his head, Hanzo crosses his arms, Genji raises his brows, they stare at each other. After a moment, Genji smiles. “Hanzo can go first,” he chirps, signing the form with a flourish and putting down the pen. As Hanzo seems about to argue, he adds, “Mine will take longer. And Hanzo has to work early tomorrow, don't you, _aniki?_ ”

 

Hanzo looks away with a sigh before he squares his shoulders and turns those burning, fierce eyes on Jesse. And there's that feeling again: the unshakable notion he's being sized up, evaluated for some sort of test. Jesse stands tall and meets his eyes, holding calm despite the thrill – he must pass something, because after a few beats Hanzo nods decisively. “I will go first then. Lead the way.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

_'Newbie nerves.' What were you smoking, vaquero?_

 

Jesse's no stranger to nudity. He's had all sorts of people in all sorts of states of undress in his chair; it's so mundane to him he doesn't even think about it. All just part of the job.

 

Hanzo undoing the buttons on his shirt should not be such a big deal. It definitely shouldn't come as such a surprise when he slides his arms (so thick, _how are they so thick_ ) free of expensive cotton, and reveals a beautiful full sleeve, a snarling dragon that crackles down his arm in blues and golds, its tail curling across his chest, disappearing beneath his undershirt.

 

Jesse allows himself an appreciative whistle. “That's some sweet ink you got there. Traditional, right? _Irezumi_ , is that the word?”

 

Hanzo eyes him as he folds his shirt. “ _Irezumi_ , yes. Like Genji's.”

 

“It's impressive work.”

 

“Thank you.” He passes his shirt to Genji, sitting off to the side, and settles himself in Jesse's chair. He tips his head back with a sigh.

 

 _Professional. You're a_ professional _, Jesse McCree. Act like one._

 

Lucky for him it's easier to ignore handsome clients when he's slipped into work-mode. By the time the design is stenciled in place and the gun ready to go, calm has slipped under Jesse's skin like ink.

 

“Ready?” he asks, foot on the pedal, needle poised above Hanzo's forearm.

 

Hanzo nods. “I am ready.”

 

At the first touch of the needle Hanzo grits his teeth, but he keeps his breathing deep and steady. After a few passes he's as relaxed as any of the crusty old punks Jesse's tattooed, the ones inked from toes to knuckles to neck.

 

Line by line, a sparrow takes flight on Hanzo's skin.

 

The time passes in a blur of the machine's drone and Genji's chatter, holding two mostly one-sided conversations with Jesse and his brother. Before he knows it Jesse's wiping the last traces of blood and excess ink from Hanzo's arm. Cleaned, wrapped, done.

 

He helps Hanzo out of the chair and starts cleaning it down, swapping out his equipment for a sterile set. Genji whips out his phone to take photos of Hanzo's fresh tattoo under its saran wrap. “Told you it would look good!” he crows.

 

Jesse glances up to see Hanzo roll his eyes. A wide, toothy smile graces his face. “Yes, yes, you were right,” he says. “I suppose I should let you gloat; it does not happen often.”

 

Genji gasps with exaggerated offense, but quiets as Hanzo rolls his shoulders and checks his watch. “You heading out, brother?” Genji asks.

 

Hanzo hums. “No. I will wait.”

 

“Really?” Genji's patchy eyebrows raise. “You sure?”

 

“I'll drive you home.”

 

“Oh. Thank you, but you don't have to-”

 

“I want to,” Hanzo says quietly, and Genji blinks, softens, smiles. Jesse busies himself portioning out fresh ink so he doesn't intrude on whatever moment they seem to be having.

 

“Right, Genji, your turn.”

 

Genji settles back in the cleaned chair. Jesse takes a deep breath before he starts, stretching out the encroaching cramps in his hand and arm to make sure he's steady. Genji is always more challenging to work with than his usual clientele; he doesn't want to make mistakes because he's tired.

 

Working this close, Jesse can't help but note the similarities and differences between him and his brother. Genji's eyes are lighter, for one, a dark whiskey instead of Hanzo's charcoal-coffee brown, and while they both have the same strong chin and aristocratic nose Hanzo has the sharper face, more angular compared to Genji's slightly rounder shapes. Hanzo's more heavily built and Genji has perhaps a bare inch more height, but the most obvious difference between them – the one that affects Jesse's work – is the faded scaring across Genji's face and arms, that tears through the green dragon coiling over his back and right shoulder. The faintest are thin like slashed cuts, scattered amongst the bubbled rifts and valleys of old burns, the stiff folds of grafted skin.

 

A car accident, apparently. Jesse's never asked.

 

Whatever happened, he's always impressed at how well Genji takes the needle. Getting tattooed over scar tissue can be more intense than undamaged skin but, like his brother, Genji never makes a peep. Maybe there's something to be said for all that Nepalese meditation he's into.

 

Minutes pass. Jesse adjusts to the rhythm of strokes, working with the contours of Genji's skin instead of against them. Before long a wolf is standing proud where once there was empty space. Genji grins as Jesse cleans it up. He holds his arm out to show it off to his big brother, giddy as a five year old, before he lets Jesse wrap it.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“You got your drink in here, Gen?” Jesse asks, hip-checking the closet door closed. “Hanzo, here's your jacket.”

 

Hanzo takes it and pulls it on, easing the sleeve carefully over his arm. “Thank you.”

 

“No problem. Genji, drink?”

 

“Mm?” Genji looks up from where he's slumped over, his flushed cheek pressed to the cool counter. “Oh, yes, it's in the side...” he waves his arm vaguely.

 

Jesse unzips the outer pocket of Genji's bag and finds the bottle of vitamin water he was looking for. “Right, here we are.” He plunks it down in front of Genji's face. “Drink it.”

 

“Yes mother.” He props himself up from his slump and downs half the bottle, then wobbles over and leans up on his toes to give Jesse a big, one-armed hug. “Thank you, Jesse. You're my favorite.”

 

Jesse chuckles. “Bet you say that to all the girls.”

 

“Only the pretty ones!” Genji laughs, swaying slightly in Jesse's arms. Jesse steadies him as he slides down. “I'll see you later, cowboy.”

 

“Take care of yourself, Genji.”

 

“I always do!”

 

From the corner of his eye, Jesse notices Hanzo smiling faintly as he watches his brother wander out the door on to the darkened street.

 

“You gonna make sure he gets home alright, yeah?” Jesse asks.

 

Hanzo blinks at him. “Of course.” He takes Genji's sportsbag and hoists it on to his left shoulder, and rummages in his pockets for his wallet. He takes out a fifty, folds it neatly in half and hands it over, pushing it into Jesse's palm. “Your tip,” he explains, to Jesse's look of surprise.

 

Jesse rubs his thumb over the number in the corner. “You sure? This is a lot more than twenty percent.”

 

Hanzo waves away his protest. “Good service should be acknowledged.”

 

“Well I sure won't argue with you.” Jeses grins, tucking the note in his pocket. Handsome, takes the needle well, _and_ a good tipper? Woof. He can only imagine the faces Lena would be making at him if she were here now. “Thank you. Feels good to have appreciative customers, I'll tell you that.”

 

Hanzo nods. “I can imagine.” He adjusts the bag strap and looks away out of the window.

 

Jesse bites the inside of his lip. This is it; work done, payment complete, the end of the artist/client relationship. All that's left is for Hanzo to say goodbye and walk out the door, and... chances are, never come back.

 

But Hanzo isn't leaving.

 

Jesse chews down harder, a sharp little stab of pain. Flirting couldn't do any harm now, right? Who knows when he might next get a chance like this...

 

Hanzo clears his throat. “You are a friend of Genji's, are you not?” He looks back at Jesse, side-long.

 

Caught off guard, Jesse blinks. Right, this is Genji's brother. Probably best not to rock the boat, no matter how much he might want to. “We don't hang out as much I'd like to, these days,” he says, “but yeah, I'd say we're friends.” He scratches his cheek. “Why're you askin'?”

 

“Is he...” Hanzo shifts his feet. “Do you know if he's always like this, after a tattoo?”

 

“Endorphin-high, you mean?” Jesse chuckles. “So far as I know, yeah. It's only the rush makin' him a lil' loopy, it'll wear off soon. You ain't seen him like this before?”

 

A tiny frown creeps back on to Hanzo's face – and it's only now that he sees it again that Jesse realizes it's been gone all evening. “I have only seen him like this when he's drunk,” Hanzo says, “and then he was usually... less cooperative.”

 

“Huh.” Jesse doesn't quite know how to respond. He's getting the feeling there's a lot between the brothers that goes unsaid. Doesn't want to risk poking anything sore. “He's got a lot o' tatts. You didn't get your dragons together?”

 

Hanzo shakes his head. “No. They were presents from our mother on our twentith birthdays. I was away at university when Genji got his. As for the others...” He trails off, then seems to give himself a little shake. “It doesn't matter. I shouldn't leave him waiting too long. Thank you for staying late to accommodate us, we both appreciate it.”

 

Jesse shakes his hand when he offers it. “Not a problem at all,” he says with a wide smile. “Was a pleasure. You take care now, Hanzo.”

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

 

 

The click of his key in the lock sounds like a heavenly choir, the quiet _shush_ of the seals as he shuts the door a burst of fresh spring air. Hanzo leans back against it with a sigh and feels about ten years younger.

 

Metaphorically, that is. Ten years ago in reality he'd felt a lot worse than this.

 

He slips off his oxfords and leaves them on the rack by the door, pads across the slippery floor in his socks to his office to leave his briefcase and laptop bag by his desk, then continues up to his bedroom at the end of the hall.

 

He takes off his jacket and hangs it in the wall-length mirrored wardrobe. Next he loosens the knot of his tie and pulls it through his collar, folds it, and sets it neatly back in its place in the rack. He undoes the top few buttons of his shirt, then stands there for a moment with his hands loose by his sides, eyes closed, breathing deeply.

 

Then he flops down on his back on the bed, landing with a soft _whumpf_ on the covers. Grimacing, he reaches for his ponytail and pulls the tie out with two rough tugs. He massages away the ache of over-stretched follicles and relaxes again with a sigh, stretching out over the clean white sheets.

 

A second later the skitter of blunt claws on wood comes echoing down the corridor. A pair of small, fluffy white heads appear round the open door.

 

Hanzo smiles. He drapes his arm over the side of the bed and wiggles his fingers. Udon trots over to sniff them but Soba ignores them entirely; she wiggles her hindquarters and launches on to the bed, tail wagging furiously, and starts chasing her own shadow across the covers. She pounces on Hanzo and snuffles at his face, burying her head in the crook of his neck.

 

 _It tickles!_ Hanzo laughs. “Easy, Soba, easy. I'm happy to see you too.” Gently he bats her damp nose away and sits up, bending over to scoop up Udon. The two dogs crowd into his lap, panting and whining excitedly. He kisses their heads. “Yes, yes, I love you too. Are you hungry? I bet you're hungry, aren't you?”

 

He nudges them off the bed. They know what's coming; they yip and race from the room, peeking back around the doorframe when he doesn't immediately follow. “Alright, I'm coming,” Hanzo chuckles, wondering idly who exactly has been trained by whom. “Don't look at me like that.” They lead him to the kitchen, glancing back at him every few steps, and herd him over to the cupboard where he keeps the dog food. He opens a pouch of food and portions it out into two blue ceramic bowls. “Okay – Soba, Udon, _sit_.” At once they both settle at his feet. Warm black eyes gaze up at him wth expectant hope. Hanzo sets the bowls down in front of them. “Good dogs. _Itadakimasu!”_

 

They tuck in like they haven't been fed in days instead of a handful of hours. Hanzo pets their fluffy ears and straightens, stretches, grunts when his spine pops. His arm is vaguely starting to itch. He goes to the bathroom and washes his hands, frowns at the ridiculous amount of dog hair on his shirt and slacks. At least the fur is as white as the shirt. The black pants may only be salvageable by the dry cleaner's.

 

He takes both off, easing the shirtsleeve carefully over his right arm, and examines the new, itching addition to his skin under the bright light.

 

The tattoo is healing well. The swelling and redness faded quickly, and its current state of flakiness is far less irritating than Hanzo remembers from his dragons. The design is still a little cloudy and dull, but already Hanzo can tell that when it's healed the lines will be crisp and bold. And what a strange mix of emotions it gives him: amusement, gratitude, hope, cut through with a snaring, nagging idea that he doesn't deserve such a thing, that he isn't worthy to wear it.

 

Genji's sparrow.

 

And Genji has his wolf. "Now I'll have you watching out for me everywhere I go," Genji had joked, making light of things as usual. Ironic, considering that wolf was set into scars Hanzo had given Genji himself.

 

Hanzo has never been the protector he should be.

 

But he cannot say he isn't glad to have done it. Even ignoring the tattoo's significance, it was good to see his brother so happy. It was more than good to spend time together, with no interruptions from work or obligations or any of Genji's odd, eclectic friends. Those couple of hours in the parlor were among some of the easiest Hanzo has spent with his brother in years. For a while it almost seemed like _before_ , when they were young.

 

His fingers trace the air above his arm, following the line of an outspread wing. It truly is a lovely little thing; deceptive in its strength, joyful and free, so full of life it appears about to fly away despite its geometric form. So much like the man it represents. Almost as if the artist _knew_.

 

Jesse McCree. That was the man's name. At first glance Hanzo wouldn't have thought the man capable of such careful, considered beauty, not when he was obviously the individual responsible for the _cowboy theme_ of his shop's décor, but he was mistaken. The thought shames him, a little – he ought to know better by now than to judge by appearances. Seeing McCree's folder of sketches, he'd had to admit to himself that Genji had made the right choice. The drawings had been varied and interesting, all done with a practiced hand and a sharp eye for detail – skills which transferred to his work with the needle.

 

There was a similar beauty in the painting he claimed to have done, hanging by the entrance to his shop. A sprawling desert landscape, towering red-yellow rock against a sky the blue of blossoming morning glory. Hanzo's seen many better, more technically accomplished paintings, but there was nonetheless something compelling about it. Wherever it was of, it was obvious you were looking through the eye of an artist who cared for the subject matter deeply.

 

Care. Perhaps that was the important thing.

 

He'd treated Genji with such care. With an open, easy smile. Despite the late hour he'd taken his time, mindful of the pain, and worked the tattoo seamlessly into the furrows of Genji's grafted skin. Instead of the lines being distorted they were brought to life; the wolf's fur seemed to stand in relief, rippling with the movement of Genji's arm like it was being stirred by a breeze.

 

Hanzo's glad the artist hadn't been there when he went in that morning. He'd wanted to pay McCree the respect of at least cancelling his appointment face-to-face, since the man had already put in so much time and effort, and with hindsight he's glad McCree's absence denied him the opportunity. Now, Hanzo can recognize the urge to cancel for what it really was: cowardice. Cowardice he justified with self-loathing.

 

(Not worthy.)

 

Perhaps he still feels that way, but it was all worth it, wasn't it? For Genji's sake if nothing else.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The weeks pass; the sparrow heals.

 

Slowly the thought of Jesse McCree fades, until he is merely a fragment of a pleasant memory, the background to a good evening. Hanzo looks at the ink on his arm and thinks of nothing but his brother.

 

It was possible he may have forgotten about Jesse McCree entirely, were it not for a chance encounter.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Brother! You're home early.”

 

Hanzo drops his shoes and briefcase by the door. “The teleconference was rescheduled.” He pads into the living area, where Genji and Zenyatta are sitting cross-legged on the floor in the streams of golden afternoon sunlight coming through the tall windows, and leans over the back of the couch. “Are the two of you planning to stay for dinner?”

 

“No, we just came here to meditate.” Genji stretches and leans back on his palms. “They're doing some roadworks near the temple and it's so noisy.” He makes a face. “All that drilling, ugh. But we can leave, if you want.”

 

Hanzo shakes his head. “There's no need. Stay as long as you wish.” He eyes the two of them, remembering Genji's propensity for _substances_. “You haven't been smoking, have you?”

 

Genji grins. “No drugs near the dogs, don't worry!”

 

Zenyatta opens his clear blue eyes, startlingly bright in his brown face. “They're sleeping in your room.” He smiles. “Hello again, Hanzo.”

 

Hanzo nods. “Zenyatta, always good to see you.” And it is – among all Genji's friends, Zenyatta is the one Hanzo likes best, not least because Genji always seems so much happier and at peace when in the monk's company. “Have the dogs been fed?”

 

“Their dry food, yes,” Zenyatta replies, “and I believe Genji may have slipped them some treats-”

 

“Shh! No I didn't!” Genji elbows him, making him giggle. “Hey, _nii-chan_ , they haven't been walked yet. You'll probably want to get on that.”

 

Hanzo decides to ignore his little brother once more trying to undermine him. Genji's determined to get the pups to favor him over Hanzo, mostly by means of feeding them things they're not supposed to eat – despite his best efforts, though, they remain unswayed. Hanzo is still the one who plays with them and cuddles them every night. Not that Genji needs to know that.

 

He goes to change into more comfortable, dog-hair-proof clothes and wrangles two excited Pomeranians into their harnesses. He waves goodbye to Zenyatta and his brother and lets the dogs drag him out the front door, down the stairs and out on to the street. They do a lap of the block before heading to the nearby park, where the dogs can do their business and exhaust themselves chasing scents through the long grass and undergrowth.

 

On the way back Hanzo sees someone stepping out of a store – a tall man with long legs, broad shoulders and a beard, wearing a Stetson of all things. He seems vaguely familiar, but it's not until the man turns and heads up the sidewalk towards him that Hanzo realizes he knows who it is.

 

It's the tattoo artist, carrying something in a brown paper bag in one hand and adjusting his hat with the other. He looks up; their eyes meet. Hanzo can tell the exact moment Jesse McCree recognizes him – one of those horribly awkward moments between not-quite-strangers where they both dither a second, not knowing whether to acknowledge each other, or to pretend they didn't see and go their separate ways.

 

The tattooist makes the decision for him. “Uh. Hey, Hanzo.”

 

Hanzo wraps the ends of the leashes around his fists and nods. “Hello.”

 

“How're you-- oh! Well hey there!”

 

Soba has proved her loyalty, saving Hanzo from horrifying small talk by jumping up and putting her paws on McCree's leg. Her fluffy tail fans from side-to-side like it's turbo-charged.

 

“Soba, down,” Hanzo scolds, tugging lightly on her leash. “I am sorry, she does not usually jump. Neither of them do.”

 

“It's fine darlin', I don't mind a bit.” McCree crouches to pet Soba with his free hand. Soba leans right into him, tongue lolling with bliss. “Heh, you like that, huh? Look at you.” McCree grins and looks up at Hanzo. “Neither, you said. You got another?”

 

Hanzo shifts his leg, revealing Udon, who had been hiding behind him. “This is Udon. He is shier than his sister.”

 

“Good lord, I'm seeing double,” McCree beams. “Like a couple'a walkin' marshmallow puffs!” He holds out his hand for Udon to sniff, and Udon allows him to scritch his neck for a moment before shaking him off. McCree chuckles and pushes to his feet. “They're gorgeous. What'd you say their names were, again?”

 

“Ah, well.” Hanzo clears his throat. He'd forgotten how wide the artist's smile was. “Officially, their names are Yuki and Kasumi. Snow and mist.”

 

“Yeah? And unofficially?”

 

Hanzo sighs. He gestures down at the dogs, now preoccupied with sniffing around McCree's boots. “Soba, and Udon.”

 

“Like the noodles?”

 

“Yes. I... it's a long story.” McCree doesn't seem put-off – more the opposite. He keeps smiling at Hanzo, as expectant and almost eager as the dogs when they're hungry, so Hanzo launches into the tale.

 

“When Genji and I were young, the owner of our local ramen shop had a dog – an old, brown, wiry-haired mutt – and this dog used to lie in the sun outside the shop all day. If I recall correctly its name was Youta, but Genji, in his childish wisdom, thought that since the dog was outside the ramen shop, obviously just calling it 'ramen dog' was much more fitting.” He chuckles and shakes his head, remembering. “He loved that dog like it was his own. We were never allowed pets, you see.”

 

McCree is still smiling when Hanzo looks up, like he's genuinely enjoying hearing the rather boring story. Hanzo can't help but smile back.

 

“So when I decided to get these two, I told him I would call them Soba and Udon, in that dog's memory. I meant it in jest, but...”

 

“The names stuck?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Yeah, it happens. Suits 'em, though. They're adorable. Aren't you, huh?” McCree coos down at Soba, who yips at him in reply. “Damn right.” He chuckles, stroking his fingers through his beard, then looks at Hanzo. “Hey, while we're talkin', how's your tattoo? S'it healed alright?”

 

Hanzo nods. “It's turned out excellent. I haven't had any problems.”

 

“Oh, good. D'ya mind if I take a look?”

 

“Of course.” Hanzo switches the leashes to his left hand and holds out his right arm for McCree to see. His skin tingles as McCree touches him lightly, angling his arm to catch the dwindling sunlight.

 

“Looks like you're takin' good care of it,” he murmurs. When he lets go Hanzo has to resist the sudden urge to rub away the odd, electric sensation. “You happy with it?”

 

“Very.” Warmth curls in Hanzo's stomach as McCree's smile turns proud. “You have some skill.”

 

“Aw shucks, thanks.” McCree scratches the back of his neck. “Say, I don't suppose you'd be free to pop into the studio some day so I can snap a quick photo of it? I like to take pictures of fully healed tatts when I can, you see, so my portfolio's not only of fresh-done pieces. Plus, y'know, it's nice for me to see how my work turns out a few weeks or months down the line.”

 

Hanzo purses his lips, considering his mental schedule. “I should be able to drop by at lunch tomorrow, if that is convenient for you,” he says slowly.

 

McCree smiles again. “Tomorrow works great!” He opens his mouth to say something else when the Imperial March starts ringing from somewhere on his person. “ _Mierda_ – sorry, I need t'get this-”

 

He digs a battered phone from the pocket of his jeans. “ _Tranquilo_ _,_ Gabo _, voy en camino_ \-- oh, Jack, it's you. Yeah, hey.” A pause, then McCree chuckles. “Is he? Already? Tell him I got the whiskey he was moanin' about, that should cheer him up. ... That's the one. ... Yeah, I'm on my way; just bumped into someone.” He glances at Hanzo and throws him a wink, then rumbles another laugh. “Well _jefe_ needs to chill! He gets through how many years of special forces no sweat, but I'm five minutes late an' he starts havin' a nervous meltdown? ... Yeah, you tell him I said that! I'll be there in two shakes of a lamb's tail, I swear.” Another rich chuckle. “Alright Jack, see you in a few. Alright. Bye now.”

 

He hangs up and slips the phone back in his pocket. “Sorry 'bout that.”

 

“No need to apologize.”

 

McCree rubs his hand against his hip. “I, uh.” He glances down at the dogs, briefly licks his lip, then looks back up. “I'll see you tomorrow, then?”

 

Hanzo nods. “At lunch, yes.”

 

“Great!” McCree flashes him a dazzling grin and claps his hand down on Hanzo's shoulder. “Good speakin' to you again, Hanzo,” he says, and bends to ruffle the dogs' ears. “And good to meet you two sweethearts, too.” He straightens and taps two fingers to the brim of his hat in a salute. “'Til tomorrow.”

 

He whistles as he walks away up the street, the spurs on his boots tinkling with each step. Hanzo watches him, shoulder and arm burning where McCree had touched him, until Soba barks him out of his stupor.

 

 

* * *

 

 

He's still feeling oddly buoyant when he gets back to the apartment. He lets the dogs off their leashes; they trot through to the living room to curl up together under the coffee table, where Genji's sprawled, watching something on his tablet.

 

“ _Tadaima._ ”

 

" _Okaeri._ " Genji leans back far enough to look at Hanzo upside-down. “There's some leftover pizza in the fridge if you're hungry.” Hanzo's stomach chooses that moment to rumble loudly, and Genji grins. “It's Meat Feast.”

 

Hanzo raises a brow. “Meat?”

 

Genji shrugs. “Zen had to go home.” He slides down slowly until he's lying with his back on the floor and lets out a sigh. “I'm crashing here tonight. That's cool with you, right?”

 

“I don't think anything I could say would dissuade you,” Hanzo snorts.

 

“That's not a no.”

 

Hanzo lifts his other brow.

 

“..I got you some matcha ice cream, too.”

 

Hanzo turns on his heel and marches straight to the kitchen. “Your offering is accepted,” he calls over his shoulder. Genji laughs.

 

A few minutes later he's sitting on the floor at the table with his pizza and ice cream, his brother beside him and two warm, furry bodies curled up by his toes.

 

“So,” Genji starts, when he's just stuffed his mouth full of pizza, “you were gone a long time.”

 

Hanzo hums.

 

Genji props his head on his hand, watching him. “Where'd you go?”

 

He takes his time chewing and swallowing, then shrugs. “The park.”

 

“The park.”

 

“Mhm.”

 

“Taking the dogs to the park takes, like, forty minutes, max. You were gone _ages._ ”

 

“Just because you only take forty minutes-”

 

“Come ooon, Han-chan! I was getting so worried I was going to call the police! What happened?”

 

Hanzo rolls his eyes. “Don't be so dramatic.”

 

“Han-”

 

“If you must know, I bumped into your friend. The tattoo artist.”

 

“Jesse?” Genji sits up. “Ah, he must be visiting his not-dads.”

 

“His – what?”

 

“Not-dads. You know, they're like his dads but they're not.”

 

“..I see.” Hanzo checks the time on his phone – it's getting late. He really should go through some of these work emails before tomorrow...

 

Genji snatches his phone from his grip. “Nope.”

 

" _Genji-!_ ”

 

“Nope! No working. We're talking.” Genji looks him right in the eye and turns the phone off. “So. Brother. Tell me about Jesse.”

 

Hanzo can only sigh and accept temporary defeat. “What about him.”

 

“How is he? What did you guys talk about?”

 

“Why don't you text him and find out.”

 

Genji waves a dismissive hand. “This is more fun. Well?”

 

Hanzo licks his fingers free of pizza grease. He pushes the empty box away and swaps it for his ice cream bowl. “He was more interested in the dogs than me,” he says, and moans quietly at his first spoonful of delicious dessert. “Mm. I am going in to his studio tomorrow, though.”

 

A glint enters Genji's eye. “Oh?”

 

“For a photo.” Hanzo taps his sparrow. “Of this. Don't get any funny ideas.”

 

“Me? I would never.” Genji's grin turns lascivious. “So how did he look? Was he handsome?”

 

Hanzo swirls the melting ice cream around in the bowl. “I suppose. If your type was 'extra from a John Wayne film'.” He shakes his head. “Why am I humoring you; you know perfectly well what he looks like.”

 

“Maybe I just like having my big brother's opinion on things,” Genji says sweetly. Hanzo throws him a _look_. Genji bats his lashes.

 

Hanzo can't help but laugh. He swats his brother on the arm. “Idiot. Tell me about your day.”

 

Mercifully Genji accepts the change in topic. They chat and bicker and watch tv until Genji falls asleep; Hanzo gathers him into his arms and settles him on the big couch, covering him with a spare throw blanket. He lifts his head gently to slide a pillow underneath and watches his little brother wrap himself in the blanket until he resembles a strange, green-haired maki roll.

 

The scars on his face look soft and faded in the low light. Ten years, Hanzo thinks. Ten years since it all happened. A lot can happen in ten years.

 

He rubs his eyes and leaves the room, stepping softly down the hall. Stops outside his office door and thumbs the phone in his pocket. It's gone midnight – the dogs are asleep. Genji's asleep.

 

A lot can stay the same.

 

He sighs and switches his phone back on as he opens the door. He turns on the lights and draws the blinds, sinks down in his large leather chair and waits for his laptop to power up. His phone vibrates with new alerts.

 

Hanzo cracks his knuckles. Those emails won't answer themselves.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I meant to mention this last chapter: so, in Japan (to my understanding) tattoos like Hanzo's are heavily associated in the social consciousness with criminality - and in-game of course Hanzo's tattoo very much is a yakuza tattoo, mystical spirit-dragons notwithstanding. For the purposes of this fic though I'm going to conveniently ignore this fact because it complicates and distracts from the story i want to tell - in this story the brothers aren't yakuza, and their dragons are just ordinary tatts.
> 
> (・ω・)b
> 
> thanks for reading!


	4. Chapter 4

 

When he woke up that morning the flight tickets were sitting in his inbox.

 

Hanzo scowls at the still-unopened email clogging up his notifications. He really ought to just read the damn thing, get it over and done with; ignoring it is not going to delay the inevitable, after all, and this trip was arranged almost six months ago. He's had more than enough time to get used to the idea.

 

Ideas, unfortunately, can never truly prepare oneself for the reality.

 

Six months flies by so fast.

 

His thumb hovers over the email app for one second, two – then sweeps over to the power button instead. The screen obediently goes dark. Hanzo smiles to himself, dropping the phone in his pocket so he can push open the door to the tattoo parlor. He's on his lunch break. The preoccupations of his inbox can wait.

 

The old bell clangs above his head, announcing his entry. Unlike the previous two times he’s been here the studio is apparently empty as he steps inside, no one lounging about on the seats or standing behind the counter.  _“¡Un momento!”_  a voice calls from somewhere in the back, but it's not McCree's, so Hanzo ignores it in favour of lingering beneath the blast of the air conditioning unit above the door and tipping his head back, glad to be out of the midday sun.

 

The studio is pleasantly cool and fresh, smelling faintly of pine and disinfectant. Usually Hanzo would find such a scent unpalatable at best, if not outright distressing – he's spent too much of his life in hospitals not to – but the reception area of the shop is so completely unlike the bare, off-white sterile utility of the burns unit and the ICU that the association doesn't stick.

 

A couple of colourful pots on the countertop hold tiny succulents, and there's more plants growing in the window, a whole plethora of them in containers of all patterns and sizes. There's even a cactus, small but particularly vicious-looking, growing inside an old, cracked leather cowboy boot. The window itself has a golden, geometric diamond pattern decaled in a strip across it beneath the studio's name – Deadeye Ink, Tattoo and Piercing Parlor – displayed in a curling font like the title screen of an old spaghetti western. The exposed dark wooden beams across the high ceiling are polished to a shine that rivals the floor, and the seating area in the corner is genuinely cozy and inviting, boasting a couple of squashed, comfortable-looking sofas and chairs in deep burgundy faux-leather. Displays of the resident artists' works line the walls, jewelry stands take the space towards the back, and to Hanzo's right, dominating the wall next to the counter, is McCree's eye-catching orange and turquoise-blue painting.

 

There are also stills and posters from western films hidden amongst the art. Hanzo huffs a laugh under his breath, catching sight of a poster for  _Tombstone_  behind the counter. McCree is definitely dedicated to his theme... but, Hanzo has to admit, it has a certain charm. Besides, he's happily watched his fair share of westerns in his time, so who is he to judge?

 

He wonders if McCree has ever watched any Kurosawa films. Hanzo thinks he would enjoy them.

 

“My my, what have we here?”

 

He looks up to find a young woman – barely out of her teens, by the youthfulness of her face, with small metal plugs in the lobes of her ears and her hair spiked into a tall mohawk – watching him from the swing-door to the back. “ _¡Buenos d_ _í_ _as!_  " she sing-songs. "What's your name, handsome?”

 

Hanzo raises a brow. “You do not know? Mister McCree did not tell you he was expecting me, I see.”

 

“Ahh, you must be  _Hanzo_. Yeah, ‘Mister McCree’ told us _all_  about  _you.”_  She saunters over to the counter and leans over it, propping her chin in her hand, and smiles a cheshire-cat smile. “So tell me,  _Mister_ Hanzo, what brought you to this fine establishment? Was the art just that good? Or did something else catch your eye?”

 

The lascivious glint in her expression is obvious – she’s making no attempt to hide it – but perhaps because it is so obvious Hanzo finds himself amused by it instead of irritated. “My brother brought me here, if you must know,” he says, “but I am not much inclined to sate the curiosity of a person who does not offer her own name in return.”

 

The young woman’s grin widens. She waves her fingers, which are tipped with long, purple acrylic nails, sharpened into points. “They call me Sombra,” she says. “And you do have a brother… he must be Genji, huh? Interesting.” She props her chin in one hand and drums her fingers on her cheek. “What star sign are you? Wait, no, let me guess – Capricorn?”

 

Hanzo snorts. “Why should I tell you?”

 

“Aw, come on. I’m just trying to be friendly.”

 

He rolls his eyes. “I’m an Aries. Born in the Year of the Dragon. Happy?”

 

“Oh,  _sí_ , very. And what about hobbies? You have two dogs, right? What-”

 

“Is this an interview you are conducting, Ms Sombra?” Hanzo interrupts.

 

She shrugs, picking under one of her long nails. “Maybe, maybe not. Just getting a sense of you, Hanzo. Or should I call you Shimada-san?” Her eyes flick up to his, as if gauging his reaction. “See if the man lives up to the rumours from back home, you know? Your home, that is, not mine.”

 

All Hanzo’s amusement abruptly vanishes under a cold weight. “Rumours?” he challenges. “What is the meaning of that? Explain yourself.”

 

“I hear stuff through the grapevine.” Her grin fades. “Listen, you don’t seem too bad, so I’ll tell you straight – which is rare for me, okay?” She taps a nail against her chest. “I owe McCree, alright? So I can get a bit protective of him. And any time he starts getting cozy with someone new I look them up. That’s all. Nothing sinister, I swear.”

 

At Hanzo’s clenched jaw and silence she sighs, slumping forwards over the counter again. “ _Ay ay ay._.. Relax,  _guapo_ , you're taking this too seriously. I’m not gonna start shit; just looking out for a friend. You can understand that, can’t you?”

 

Hanzo doesn’t really follow her jumps in logic, but she seems earnest enough, he supposes. And even if she has looked him up, for whatever reason, it isn't as though his past is particularly hidden. His greatest shames are a matter of public record, out there for anyone to see.

 

“How about I tell you a secret of McCree’s to make up for it?” she offers.

 

Hanzo frowns. “I do not think-”

 

“He bleached his hair last summer, on a dare.” She taps at her phone and turns it towards him so he can see. “Here, I got pictures. Look.”

 

Hanzo looks. Sure enough, there on the screen is McCree, with a grumpy frown and frizzled, yellow-bleached hair. It doesn’t suit him, but Hanzo barely notices, because in the picture McCree is also shirtless.

 

He has a nice chest. Broad, thickly built. Soft, surprisingly large brown nipples. Skin highlighted with a fine glisten of sweat.

 

“We called him Baywatch all summer,” Sombra tells him gleefully. “He  _hated_ it. Or pretended to, anyway.” At this point the bell rings and the man himself steps inside, brushing his natural chestnut brown hair out of his face and into a small ponytail. Sombra waves at him. “ _Ay, Jesse, tu novio está aquí._ ”

 

McCree stops short. He glances between the two of them before stepping up to Hanzo’s side. “Hey there, Hanzo, sorry I’m late.” He squints at the woman. “This devil-child ain't been botherin' you none, has she?”

 

“Not at all.” Hanzo smiles. “..Baywatch.”

 

McCree blinks, gawps. Sombra cackles with laughter, only growing louder as McCree flusters, pink blooming on the high cut of his cheekbone. “Really, Som? Just – just watch the front, will you?”

 

She salutes, still grinning.  _“Sí, jefe_.  _Someone_  has to pull their weight around here.”

 

McCree ignores her. He tucks a large hand into the small of Hanzo’s back and guides him through to the back of the shop. “Don't mind Sombra,” he says. “She’s a menace. Too smart for her own good.”

 

Hanzo shrugs. “I rather liked her, actually.”

 

“Yeah? She didn’t start harrassing you, did she?”

 

“Well, it was… an interesting conversation.”

 

“I keep telling her to knock it off, but does she listen?" McCree sighs again. "I do know she means well. Mostly. She just ain’t had the best start in life, so – well, her lines are drawn different to most other people’s. Damn good intern, though. ...When she bothers to turn up.” Hanzo looks at him, puzzled, but McCree shakes his head. “Nevermind.”

 

Instead of going into the studio with his chair McCree leads them to a plain white door, which he unlocks to reveal a tiny, cramped office, barely any space for the small desk and filling cabinet it contains. A set of shelves above the desk are stuffed with folders and overflowing sketchbooks. McCree clears his throat. “'Scuse the mess, darlin’. Now, where did I leave the damn thing...” He fights open a stiff desk drawer and rummages about, before pulling out a camera case. “Ah, here we are. Come on then, the light's better out the front.”

  

* * *

 

“ _SURPRISE!!”_

 

A burst of noise and confetti greets Hanzo as soon as he opens his front door. Genji skips over to his side, ushering him in and closing the door firmly behind him before he can turn tail and flee.

 

“You're late, brother! We were about to get started without you!”

 

“Get started with  _what_ , exactly?”

 

Hanzo doesn't think he's ever seen his apartment so full of people. He recognises a couple of people he met through work connections – Mei and Akande, and is that Fareeha Amari he spies next to Dr Ziegler on the sofa? – and bunched together in a corner are some of the people from the game nights he goes to on occasion, but most of those gathered he knows primarily because of his little brother. Genji has always been a great believer in dragging his more reticent sibling into his social circles, a habit that started in preschool and has never changed since, no matter how many times nor how ferociously Hanzo has protested.

 

Genji rolls his eyes. “Please don't tell me you actually forgot. You did, didn't you! By the Iris, Hanzo, you can be such a cliché sometimes.”

 

“Genji-”

 

“It's your birthday, dummy!” He sticks a party horn in his mouth and blows it hard, a loud obnoxious trumpet. The green sparkling plastic jets into Hanzo's nose. “Come on, go change into something nice, let your hair down for a bit, yeah? Have some fun!”

 

He pats Hanzo on the shoulder and whirls away into the crowd, then claps his hands loudly above his head. “Alright everybody! Let's get this party started!”

 

Hanzo's had a long, tiring day at work. He wants nothing more than to decompress and go to bed early, but that's off the cards now. Still, if all these people have gone to this trouble, even if they only did so because Genji asked it of them, the least Hanzo can do is make an effort. He toes off his shoes and carries them to his room in lieu of leaving them in the sprawling pile by the door. Hidden in his quiet bedroom he strips out of his white shirt and swaps it for a clean one in a deep emerald green, then combs out his hair and, feeling childishly contrary, refastens it into its usual neat topknot instead of leaving it loose. Soba and Udon are curled together at the foot of his bed in a mound of fluff; he gives them each a gentle pet, not wanting to disturb them, but sadly even dogs aren’t a good enough excuse to stall any longer. He forces himself to abandon his calm sanctuary for the chaos that is Genji's idea of a good time.

 

In fairness to his brother, it's much toned down from the types of parties Genji used to throw in his youth. Loud, but not overly so; no one (hired or otherwise) divesting themselves of their clothing; a varied spread of foods Hanzo enjoys, instead of sustenance being ignored in favor of other consumables – at least, if any drugs are being passed around, they're being very discreet. Genji's even had the sense to buy the  _good_  sake, and lots of it.

 

Hanzo does the necessary rounds, greeting everyone, making the appropriate small talk and accepting congratulations for making it one year closer to his inevitable demise. Eventually he gets drawn into a conversation with Mei and the woman she's dating, a formidable Russian weightlifter he recognizes from Genji's gym, and he finds himself relaxed enough that he can tolerate Genji standing on the coffee table (a new, sturdier one, purchased after the last collapsed under Genji's weight), clinking a metal-tipped chopstick against a glass to gather everyone's attention.

 

“Dearly beloved,” he starts. Hanzo buries his face in his hand. “We are all gathered here today for a very special occasion-”

 

“You getting hitched, Genji?” someone calls out, and the crowd hoots with laughter.

 

Genji grins, taking the interruption in stride like the showman he is. “I'm still waiting for you to ask me, Jamie!” he jokes. “No, this isn't about me, unfortunately, but we are here to celebrate something _almost_ as important.

 

“Thirty six years ago today – give or take a few hours for timezones – my mother found a giant peach floating in our family's koi pond.” He paused to let the image sink in and the smattering of laughter to quiet. “'How strange,' she thought. 'What is a peach doing in the koi pond? And why is it so unusually large?' Curious, she retrieved the peach. She found it to be ripe and not rotten, so she took it to the kitchen, and with a sharp knife she carefully cut the peach open. And what do you think she found inside?”

 

“A peach pit,” someone says, droll. It sounds like Fareeha.

 

“Exactly!” Genji laughs. “There was no child sent by the gods hiding inside that peach. But as my mother stood there, contemplating whether she was willing to eat a fruit she'd found floating in her fishpond... her waters broke. And, five hours later,” Genji gestures at Hanzo and smiles, “my big brother was born.”

 

Hanzo can feel his ears grow hot from the attention, but for once Genji's speech turns out not to be too deliberately humiliating. His brother's face is bright and happy as he extolls an exaggerated list of Hanzo's virtues in one breath, then playfully insults him in the next. Hanzo rolls his eyes, but he finds himself smiling, and he laughs with the rest when Genji pops the cork off the champagne and it ricochets off the ceiling and tonks him audibly on the head.

 

After Genji's finished embarrassing him, the cake Hanzo's been eyeing all evening finally gets distributed and the music turned up louder. It's still too early for Hanzo to take his leave – and what would he do, anyway? Hide in his room all night? But he's tired and worn out, and he can feel it starting to catch up to him. The smile etched on his lips no longer hits the mark, and eventually it becomes strained, then drops altogether.

 

He makes his escape out on to the roof terrace with two slices of cake and one of the bottles of sake all to himself. Fuck it. It's his birthday.

 

He's gotten halfway through his first slice when the sliding doors open. He bites back a sigh, but when no drunken revelers spill out to disturb him, he looks over his shoulder to see what's happening.

 

“Hey there.” McCree hovers in the doorway, prosthetic hand still on the handle ready to pull the door closed again. “Hope I ain't intrudin'?”

 

Unbidden, Hanzo's smile returns like it never left. “Not at all.” He kicks out the chair to his right and McCree takes the invitation, crossing the terrace to drop down next to him.

 

“Sorry I'm late,” he says in a rush. “Had to finish with a client, and then when I finally made it here Genji started pesterin' me, and then I bumped into Fareeha-”

 

Hanzo raises his hand. “Peace, McCree. The sun is setting, the view is beautiful, and I have been drinking excellent champagne and sake for the past hour and a half. I am not insulted. You did not have to seek me out to make apologies.”

 

McCree shrugs. “Yeah, well, felt wrong turning up at a party without at least sayin' hello to the birthday boy.”

 

“You needn’t have troubled yourself coming at all.”

 

Out of the corner of his eye Hanzo catches McCree giving him an odd look, though he can't imagine why. Perhaps the alcohol is playing tricks on him. “An' miss out on a view like this?” is all McCree says. He shakes his head. “Nah, don't think so. Don't think you can hog this all to yourself, Shimada-san.”

 

An inexplicable giggle burbles up from Hanzo's chest. He leans back in his chair, feeling like the fizz of sparkling wine, like he could float up and away into the sky if he just lay still long enough. The sunset stretches above them, striped with pinks and oranges, turning the glint of the ocean bay in the distance into a fiery shimmer; its colours are multiplied in a kaleidoscope of reflections off the high rises downtown. The breeze is starting to cool, and Hanzo has some delicious cake. He casts a glance to his side. He also has agreeable company – the cowboy seems content simply to sit quietly, the gentle hint of a smile curling the corners of his wide lips. The sun lights his face, painting his brown skin with an amber hue, revealing golden flecks in the depths of his dark whiskey eyes and highlighting the red in his hair.

 

After a moment of deliberation, Hanzo nudges the second slice of cake across the small wicker table between their chairs, bumping it into McCree's elbow.

 

“Here. For you.”

 

“Huh? Oh!” The smile lights McCree's face as much as the sun. “Why thank you kindly.”

 

He digs in with a low noise of appreciation, crumbs getting caught in his beard. He's wearing the same boots Hanzo saw him in on the street the other week. Not the plain brown pair he was wearing at his job; these are black leather, decorated with contrast stitching and a white scrolling pattern down each side. His long legs are wrapped in a pair of paler blue stone-washed jeans that hug his thighs, and a plaid shirt stretches snug over the breadth of his chest and shoulders, cornflower blues with a thin, pale gold stripe. Before he saw Sombra’s photograph Hanzo hadn't noticed quite how broad he is, but now it seems impossible  _not_  to; and he must have waxed his chest when the photo when taken, Hanzo realizes, because there, peeking out between the hollow of McCree's throat and the open vee of his collar, he spies the tempting curls of thick, dark hair.

 

“Where is your hat?” Hanzo hears himself say.

 

McCree stops halfway through chewing, one cheek bulged out slightly around his mouthful. He's shaved, Hanzo notices. The edges of his beard are neat and sharp, and there's a tiny fresh scab under his jaw where he's caught the skin with the razor.

 

“Mm?” McCree finishes chewing and swallows. “Sorry doll, what was that?”

 

“Your hat. Where is it?”

 

“Oh. It's uh, hangin' up on your coat pegs.” McCree licks his lips and brushes the crumbs from his bristled chin with the back of his hand. “Why're you askin'?

 

“At first I had thought your... cowboy accoutrements were a costume,” says Hanzo, “to match the theme of your shop. But you seem to wear these things all the time.”

 

McCree chuckles. “I'll have you know I'm the genuine article.” He leans back in his chair, gestures down at the casual slant of his body, the thick chest and long legs. Laid out on display. “Santa Fe born and bred. Worked on  _mi abuelo's_  ranch when I was knee-high to a grasshopper. You're lookin' at 200lbs of 100% authentic, pure American buckaroo.” He pauses to wrinkle his nose. “Well, I'm part Mexican, but... you know what I mean.”

 

One of his thumbs gets tucked under the large, golden buckle of his belt. The buckle has an eagle on it, and just below the buckle the covered fly of his jeans curves outwards around--

 

Hanzo has to drag his eyes away to safer pastures. He pokes at the remaining cake crumbs on his plate with his fingertip and clears his throat. “I see.”

 

“And yourself?”

 

“Hm?”

 

“You and Genji, you came over to the States from Japan, right?” McCree sits up from his loose sprawl and leans forward, elbow propped on the arm of his chair closest to Hanzo. “Whereabouts is home for you? Genji's never talked about it much.”

 

“Hm.” _No, he wouldn't,_  Hanzo thinks. The drink is starting to sit uneasily in his stomach. He sets aside his tokkuri next to the plate. “Hanamura,” he answers. “A town high up in the hills above the sprawl of Tokyo. Our family owns an estate there – a castle, I suppose I should call it. It has been the ancestral home of the Shimadas for generations.”

 

McCree whistles. “No kiddin', a castle? Damn.”

 

Hanzo shrugs a shoulder. “I did not see anything unusual about it until I was a teenager and my father started having me accompany him on his business trips. It was simply home to me.” His gaze drifts out towards the sea, gets caught on a dotted line of clouds skimming the horizon, washed with pale pink. “It is very beautiful there. Each spring, the sakura bloom in abundance. Before the Meiji Restoration, before my family turned the town into a centre of commerce, the fame of the sakura was what kept the villagers sustained year-to-year. People would travel from far and wide to see the village of flowers in all its majesty – and they continue to do so even now. Yes, Hanamura's views would outvalue this one any day, but especially now, during spring.”

 

“You should work for the Hanamura tourist board,” McCree says with a smile. “You're makin' me want to take a trip there myself.”

 

Abruptly, Hanzo remembers the tickets lurking in his inbox. Opened in a fit of self-flagellation and annoyance and not looked at since.

 

“..Hm.”

 

McCree's fingers drum on the armrest. “So what is it you do, if you don't mind me asking? I mean, you got those fancy duds, swanky penthouse apartment-” he spreads his arm out before them- “a gorgeous view; you must be doin' pretty well for yourself.”

 

“Nothing particularly interesting,” Hanzo sighs. “I'm a financial analyst for a private firm in the city.”

 

“Wait, you actually work in finance? I thought Genji was making that up. ..Not that's there's anythin' wrong with it, o' course.”

 

Hanzo huffs a thin, dry laugh. “It does pay well, as you said. Though in truth, it is not the path I would have chosen for myself, had I been free to make the decision.”

 

“No?”

 

Hanzo's head feels heavy on his neck. He lets it loll back against the headrest of the chair. “Genji and I, our father has always wanted us to join the family business,” he explains. He doesn't know why he's telling McCree these things, but the artist sits and takes in what he says quiet and intent. “I have always enjoyed mathematics, and I had an aptitude for it, so that is where I pursued my focus; though of course we both had a thorough grounding in all aspects of business.”

 

McCree works his jaw silently. “But... Genji is a dancer..?”

 

“..That is the path he chose, yes.”

 

Thankfully, McCree backpedals from that particular subject. “What would you have liked to do?” he asks. “If you'd had the choice?”

 

Hanzo shrugs loosely. “I've never really thought about it. Astrophysics, perhaps. When I first came here I used to attend lectures at UCLA. Just for fun, you understand, when the opportunity arose.”

 

“But not anymore?”

 

“No.”

 

“How come you stopped?”

 

“It seemed... a waste of time,” Hanzo says quietly. He's vaguely aware, somewhere distant and hazy at the back of his mind, that come this time tomorrow he's going to regret having been so loose with his tongue. Right now he can't bring himself to care. “What about you, Mister McCree? Do you enjoy what you do?”

 

“Please, it's Jesse, or at least McCree. No 'mister', makes me feel old.” He clasps his hands together, leans so far over the armrest the wood creaks. “And yeah, I enjoy it well enough. I mean it has its rough patches, don't get me wrong – what job doesn't? – but I get to be creative, do somethin' I love, and make people happy at the same time. There's a lot to be said for that.”

 

“I see.”

 

The sun is dipping into the ocean, as if beckoning him.  _Follow me_. Hanzo frowns at it, squinting against the light. “So you do not ever feel stifled?” he murmurs. “Directionless, like a goldfish in a bowl, a koi fish in an ornamental pond, swimming around and around and around...”

 

“Sometimes, yeah,” comes the soft reply.

 

“It has been ten years since I left Japan.” Hanzo looks down at the sparrow on his arm. “I do not know how I want to spend the next ten years, only that I want them to be different. I wish to be different.”  _But how to achieve such a thing?_

 

“Yeah? Like a fresh start?”

 

“Hm. Not exactly. More like... a change of direction. To acknowledge the past, but to go...” He waves his hands vaguely out at the open air, then sighs. “I don't know. I'm drunk.”

 

“You're makin' plenty o' sense to me.”

 

Hanzo tilts his head to the side. He'd almost forgotten he had an audience, but finds McCree's warm eyes still upon him. “You understand?”

 

McCree nods.

 

Hanzo sighs. “I don't know where I am going, or how to get there. Or where to find a map.”

 

“If they even make maps like that, I don't know where they're sellin' 'em,” says McCree with a wry smile. “Not sure anyone really knows where they're headin' in life. I sure as hell don't.”

 

Hanzo frowns at him. “You own and operate your own business. That is more than most men our age can claim for themselves.”

 

“..Yeah, I guess.”

 

“Do you know something funny? I sometimes daydream about quitting my job,” Hanzo confesses. “Handing in my resignation and simply walking out the door. Ten years I have been in this country, and did you know I have barely left southern California?”

 

McCree is watching him. His eyelashes are thick, Hanzo notices, too thick, thicker than should be allowed. “I would go on a road trip,” he continues. “I would stop at every ridiculous tourist trap on the side of the highway, eat terrible food, get lost in the middle of nowhere where there's no phone service for the next hundred miles, and I would not have to stay up past midnight replying to work emails ever again.”

 

McCree looks away, tipping his head back. Hanzo copies him; the few faint stars visible above the city's glow are just starting to appear in the twilight.

 

“It would not ever happen, of course,” Hanzo murmurs, “I am not impulsive like my brother. I could not simply leave my job without good reason.” And it is a moot point anyway, he thinks. In a few months he will be gone and it will no longer matter. “..Perhaps I could find myself an American citizen to marry,” he murmurs to himself. The idea makes him snort, crack into a fit of giggles. “Ha! Can you imagine?”

 

From the corner of his eyes he sees McCree open his mouth and take breath as if to speak – but he does not, only pauses then shuts his mouth again.

 

Hanzo reaches across and prods his arm. “If you let slip to my brother I have told you any of this, McCree,” he says sternly, “I will hunt you down in your sleep.”

 

This startles a burst of laughter from McCree. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Hanzo,” he says, deep brown eyes sparkling with mirth. “Every man’s entitled to his secrets. Yours are safe with me.”

 

Satisfied, Hanzo leans back in his chair with a grunt, and resolves to ignore the uncertain whispers of the future for the rest of the night. The sky is growing darker, the stars starting to brighten as they turn millions of miles above his head and McCree's. He is small, they remind him, and in the end utterly insignificant in the eyes of the universe. For now he will content himself with that.

 


End file.
